


Deliveroo

by HarrogateBelmont



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: COVID-19, Doom Bar, F/M, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28757805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrogateBelmont/pseuds/HarrogateBelmont
Summary: Strike decides to surprise Robin with pandemic takeaway for dinner. But will the technology drive him insane?
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Deliveroo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaeNonnyNonny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeNonnyNonny/gifts).



> This is in response to a challenge posted by RaeNonnyNonny on the Denmark Street Discord. _Cormoran trying to Deliveroo a Doom Bar during lockdown and getting increasingly grumpy (‘Digitalisation’)_. I hope I have done the idea justice. I am the Robin in my family, but I have heard others act much as Strike does in this story. 
> 
> Let's assume that it is January 2021, Robin and Strike are an established couple, all the good things we have hoped for them have come to pass, and if there are bad things, we are over them. 
> 
> Many thanks to FallingFaintly, who read over this and helped make sure I was being properly British, as well as everyone who answered my questions about grocery delivery in the UK!
> 
> Enjoy!

Strike was not in a good mood. He was frustrated and annoyed, and trying hard not to let it show. Currently, he was stretched out on the loveseat in the sitting room of the flat he and Robin had shared for the last several years, ever since they had been forced to move their business and his lodgings out of Denmark Street. His crutches lay on the floor beside him. With this latest lockdown, he had decided that he might as well leave off his prosthetic leg as much as possible. Why bother with it if he rarely left the house? He placed his laptop on the coffee table that sat alongside the sofa, and reached for the bottle of water that he kept there. 

The agency had managed to do well during the months of the pandemic, and most days he was grateful that not only was the business still viable when so many others were suffering, but that they had needed to hire a new employee to assist with some of the more IT-related tasks they were being asked to perform. Spanner’s best friend, Pacman, had lost his job early in the pandemic due to the failure of the startup he had joined, and turned out to be a valuable asset in the few months he had worked for Strellacott Investigations. 

But while Robin, Strike, Pacman, and Pat worked almost entirely from home these days, their other contractors continued to conduct surveillance and more active investigations. Robin and Strike would step in when needed, but the only way to ensure enough work for the others was for the two of them, the most skilled at online and remote research, to shift their focus. 

Things hadn’t been so bad over the summer. The weather had been nice and some days Robin and Strike would sit on benches in the small park across from their flat and work outside. They had been able to take walks and drive places, and even sit outside at pubs. They had been able to see Nick, Ilsa, and Penelope outdoors, and had even driven to St. Mawes for a week to see Ted.

Despite their meticulous (sometimes Strike thought they were being  _ too  _ careful) restraint in going out, and their adherence to all of the masking and hand-washing guidelines, they still had not managed to see Robin’s family in Yorkshire over the holidays, and Strike realized that he was, perhaps, more upset about this than Robin herself. He liked her parents and siblings, and they had fallen into a comfortable camaraderie over the years, but his real desire had been to go somewhere,  _ anywhere _ that wasn’t London, and it had been difficult for him to lift himself from the disappointment in the weeks following the holiday. 

Strike ran a hand through his hair, which, he thought ruefully, would have made his mother proud. Now older than his mother had ever been, his last haircut had been in July, and he was starting to look like he had constantly just rolled out of bed, unless he rinsed his hair in the shower to even it out. In contrast, his beard, which he could trim and control on his own, was neat; he had to participate in too many online video calls to entirely let himself go.

The light coming through the large windows in the front of the room was growing dim. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost 4 o’clock. He sighed. The worst hour. Too early to quit work, and too late to start anything new. He glanced towards the bedroom door. One of Robin’s old bras, a favorite of his early in their relationship, emerald green and trimmed in lace, was hanging from the doorknob. Even though they had worked in the same office, sharing a desk, for years, the stressors of the pandemic had finally taken their toll. One day, early on during the pandemic, when Strike had sighed loudly one time too many, Robin had quietly risen from the armchair where she’d been sitting, stormed into the bedroom, and declared that when the bra was hanging on the door, it meant that she needed to be alone. He understood, and had always respected her need for privacy.

To make matters worse, today was Friday. He closed his eyes and thought longingly of their old local, the Tottenham, and the dozens of Friday evenings that he and Robin had spent, decompressing after a long week, comparing notes on cases, surreptitiously stealing glances at each other across a second, or third pint or glass of wine. What he wouldn’t give to have the prospect of a pub in his near future. It would make it possible for him to continue working for another hour, at least.

Then, he had an idea. Reaching for his phone, he picked it up and quickly texted Robin.

**Thinking about dinner.** xxx

He heard her phone ding faintly in the other room and then a laugh. It never failed to amuse her when he sent her messages from the other room.

**Of course you are. xoxo**

Strike grinned. She was going to be proud. When they had first moved in together, they had happily split the domestic duties. It turned out that Strike’s skills with laundry and cooking were superior to Robin’s, but she excelled at shopping and cleaning. Unfortunately, the shopping part had become complex during the pandemic, and Strike felt guilty that Robin was always the one arranging their grocery deliveries and their weekly takeaway options. Well, what could be so difficult about it? 

Strike exchanged his phone for his laptop, and lifting the lid, he settled in and typed  _ Tottenham delivery _ in the search box. He clicked on the first result, and saw an icon that resembled two fingers pointing upwards and a list of restaurants and pubs. It took him a moment, after reading the name next to the icon, to realize that it was actually a stylistic depiction of a kangaroo. The service was called “Deliveroo.” Why a kangaroo? he wondered. Because they were hopping fast at delivery? Was it an Australian company? He’d heard of them, but had never used the website. With a smirk to himself, he realized that he could start calling himself “Strike-a-roo” from the way he hopped around the flat when he was too lazy to retrieve his crutches. 

It seemed simple enough. It wasn’t as though he had never used a website before. He clicked on the link to the Tottenham, and smiled fondly as the familiar menu came into focus. Locating his and Robin’s favorite dishes, he added them to the online shopping cart. There was a section labelled “Drinks” and feeling suddenly lighthearted at the prospect of a fresh pint, he was almost instantly deflated by seeing that the offerings were only nonalcoholic, sweet and heavily-carbonated.

Strike hit the back-button on his browser. He had remembered seeing something about alcoholic beverages, but nothing appeared now. Using the search box at the top, he typed in  _ beer _ and scrutinized the brief results. His screen now showed an image and link for a Korean Beer and BBQ restaurant, along with what appeared to be overpriced beer options from various local restaurants. 

“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself. Robin had managed to procure a magical 24-count case of Doom Bar for him for Christmas, and although he had tried to make them last as long as possible, they were now all gone, and he had been depending on whisky when he wanted a drink, as his collection had accumulated over the years. The case of wine that Robin had purchased at the same time was still half full with bottles, but Strike really, really wanted a beer.

Returning to the search box, he typed  _ doom bar _ and sighed in frustration as an image of a pair of binoculars appeared, with a message below: 

**_Didn’t find anything for "doom bar"_ **

**_Try searching for another restaurant or cuisine._ **

_ Bite me _ , he typed into the search box. As if mocking him, Deliveroo returned a list of restaurants, all of which were unfamiliar, despite the fact that all of them were located within delivery distance of their flat. 

Now he was on a mission. He could see that there was a way to click on his neighborhood, to display a list of all the options nearby. A graphic containing beer bottles caught his eye. The shop was called “Drinky” and he had never heard of it, despite the fact that they promised to be able to deliver anything to him in 30 minutes or less. He clicked, and the menu page for Drinky appeared. A red banner appeared under the company description. 

**Delivered by Drinky**

**_This means that you won’t be able to follow your order or get live updates._ **

Strike let out a laugh. “Shouldn’t let them know you can’t follow them,” he muttered to himself. “Bad surveillance technique.” He had a sudden image of himself standing across the street from a shop, hundreds of bottles of beer visible through the frosty windows. A man in a motorcycle helmet emerged, with the word “Drinky” emblazoned in Gothic lettering across the front. He was carrying a six-pack of beer. Strike watched as he mounted his motorcycle and sped away. 

Shaking his head to bring himself back to reality, Strike scrolled down to the “Beer” section of the menu. No Doom Bar listed. Only a few mediocre foreign beers. “What?!” he exclaimed, and then, realizing he had spoken out loud, paused a moment, to see if Robin had heard. When no response came from behind the bedroom door, he turned back to the computer in disbelief. £19.99 for a six-pack of Stella in cans. “Highway robbery,” he grumbled. 

For a moment, Strike considered just giving in and waiting until Robin finished her work. He knew she wouldn’t pay for overpriced beer, and somehow she had managed to have an entire case delivered to their flat. How had she done it?

Clicking on the ridiculous kangaroo-shaped logo again, he went to type in a different search term, but that returned him to the main page, where he had to retype his postal code first. “If you’re so intelligent, why can’t you keep track of this?” he asked the website. Grudgingly, he typed it in again, and waited until the website moved on to the next page.

_ Alcohol _ he typed into the search box. This time, he was rewarded with a list of “24/7 Alcohol Delivery” options, many of which advertised 50% off deals. He clicked on one with the hopeful air of someone who has just pulled the crank on a slot machine. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered under his breath.

The prices for this shop were much more reasonable, but still, they only seemed to sell overpriced imports. How could it be possible that Corona, Budweiser, and Stella dominated the market for beer in London. He racked his brain to try to remember if this had somehow been in the papers. Was there a shortage of British beer? Had everyone bought all of it after the holidays? 

Strike closed the laptop lid halfway, and gazed across the room at the bottle of whisky. But sometimes a man just wanted to taste a beer. With a sigh, he opened up his laptop and clicked to add a six-pack of Corona to the shopping cart. Another message window appeared on the screen.

###  **Create new basket?**

**_This will clear your existing basket with the Tottenham and start a new basket with 24 Hours Alcohol Shop._ **

“Fucking digitilisation,” he growled, and clicked the Cancel button. Then he clicked on the shopping cart icon in the corner to make sure that his Tottenham order was still there. Afraid to risk losing it and having to start all over, he reviewed the cart, noting that the delivery fee had been waived for 14 days. “Well, that’s something,” he said. “Rider tip? Don’t they pay the delivery person?” 

Why was he so tired? Strike checked his watch. 4:30 already. Half an hour. He had spent a half-hour of his life trying to order some pies and chips from the Tottenham. He should have just called and arranged to pick it up in person. At this though, Strike almost hit himself on the head. Yes, he should have just called. It would have taken 15 minutes to drive there and back, so, same time, and he would have saved himself a tip.

Grudgingly, he opened a new tab on his browser and typed in,  _ How much tip deliveroo _ . Unfortunately, instead of providing him with a straightforward answer, the search results included links to what looked like extensive and inconclusive discussion forums about tipping practices in the UK.

Eventually, he selected an amount that he assumed was fair, and then clicked the bright green “Go to Checkout” button.

**_Sign up or Log in_ **

**_Continue with Facebook_ **

**_Continue with Google_ **

**_or_ **

**_Continue with Email_ **

“Christ!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the back of the loveseat. How did Robin handle all of this? She had a Facebook account, he knew. He hated registering for things with his personal email, because then, no matter how hard he tried to uncheck boxes, he’d be deluged with promotional and marketing emails. After today, he never wanted to see the word “Deliveroo” ever again.

“What’s going on?” Robin had emerged from the bedroom. She removed the emerald-colored bra from the doorknob and hung it on the inside of the door, signaling that she, too, was finished working for the day.

“Er,” Strike paused, unsure whether he was ready to admit defeat or not. But before he could decide, the doorbell rang.

“Expecting someone?” he asked.

Robin stared at him. “I told you this morning that I was putting in an order to Asda for the weekend. Have you had your hearing checked recently?”

And with that, she headed to the door and pressed the button to allow the delivery person to bring their groceries upstairs. Once she was certain that they were gone, she opened the door, and pulled in several large bags filled with groceries, and two six-packs of Doom Bar. 

“I noticed we were out,” she said, picking up the six-packs and carrying them over to the kitchen. “What was your idea for dinner, anyway?”

Strike put his laptop back on the coffee table, and reached for his crutches. “I could use some exercise,” he said. “Thought I’d ring the Tottenham and see if they’ll let us do a takeaway? It's a bit of a walk, but we can warm up when we get home.” 

Robin smiled. “That sounds lovely, actually. I’ve been inside too long. We really do need to get out more.” 

Strike headed for the bedroom, where his leg had been resting all day, and stopped to give Robin a kiss along the way. “Thanks,” he said.

“For what?” she asked.

“For everything,” he answered.


End file.
